


purple declaration

by Elisye



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing, Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: M/M, dial the void for help with your procrastination, is it one-sided or dubiously mutual saiouma?? a mystery.mp3, of course there are spoilers for the game and specifically for ouma so. well. yep.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9863102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: To forget is to be liberated.But for you - you mustn't, mustn't forget.





	

  
On the rooftops of Paris, you laugh to the sound of a blaring siren and the whirl of helicopters above you. 

The wind catches the tail of your cape as you hop along the eroded tiles and navigate through slim alleyways, hearing your heels click against brick walls and iron railings alike. You know, not too far away, that your prime challenger is still after you - you can see him sometimes, when you purposefully slow down and peek over your shoulder, finding the detective already out of breath but all too determined to get one of your wrists in his handcuffs.

You wonder if he'll ever get bored of these cat and mouse antics. It's easily within the possibilities for him to think of just reporting the stolen jewels and paintings, and then retiring back home to a warm bed and a less noisy life while leaving the actual chasing and investigating to some other person on the force. Now, if that were to truly occur, that would be a disappointment on par to heartbreak.

But you know that won't happen, because he never disappoints you.

...If anything, however - _you_ might be the one to disappoint him.

You - your piece - smile thinly behind the white mask as you glance up at the night sky. If you squint hard enough, you can make out faint lines between the constellations - white, grey cracks, threatening to break apart this fragment from your unnecessary meddling.

But it can't be helped, either.

Boredom is so hard to starve off. You can't always play a game.

This sort of lonely compromise is more than enough to forget, and also more than enough to remember.

 

 

 

Once in a while, you have an opponent.

It isn't anything interesting.

Sometimes there are genuinely amusing games and intriguing tricks - things to keep in mind for when you're the host of a game for a change, which is surprisingly not at all an often thing (and that's even less surprising to wonder and understand). But otherwise, to play with anyone is a most uninteresting thing indeed.

Your peers whisper about it, when they think you're nowhere in earshot but absolutely are. Most witches take a grand pride in holding intricate games, in puzzling mysteries, in having participated in gameboards that may become legendary in some way. There are plenty of boasts about their win count, the flourish of their finales and the finesse of their work upon their audience. And there you are, a witch of respectable strength and some highly remarkable, twisted logic - but you never really blabber about your accomplishments, despite your loud personality practically demanding it. And truly, that makes you odd, for not finding any satisfaction in them.

Because, logically, that means they bore you.

And to a witch, boredom is more than just death by non-existence. For many, and especially for you, boredom is to slowly step your feet back into a certain sort of hell - to remember, but down to the clearest detail.

You know you're an odd one for both wanting to forget and to remember - to forget and dull the pain, to remember because you will never be yourself if you simply forget, you know that oh so well - but there are, at times, certain moments where you look at the hundreds of thousands of fragments around you with a hand ghosting over phantom injuries, wondering which one is the closest to the gameboard you were born from. And that, you think, is definitely a line of thought that any witch will laugh and gawk at for how torturous it is; the stupidest, worst thought to have, and so one to be kept hidden even under your oddness.

Not even a lie, really. How simple.

 

 

 

In a library of the theater-going, you settle into a caramel-toned loveseat and flip through books.

Eyes flicker over cursive ink and miniature constructions of several games held at some point - because time still exists in the meta-realms, but doesn't all the same. Here, in this quiet room, you idly collect knowledge of certain witches held to a certain degree of fame. It's not a hobby, certainly not, but you can't quite manage to brush off the urge to collect every single thing that you possible can, in terms of details. The only thing missing here would be the dusty piles of books and half-opened cardboard boxes, mixed with a random array of evidence and junk to match the small mountain of scrunched up plans and theories in the bin. A whiteboard too, actually.

But you don't go any further with that recollection. Lingering much too closely at that line between conscious awareness and perpetual fogginess, a memory of poisoned arrows and mechanical noises waits for you to lower your guard. You cannot. You absolutely cannot. 

In that game, you were forced into despair, into a scripted dichromacy, and fell further into it. It's a sensation to never be relived, if possible. So you concentrate as much as possible on the page in front of you, trying to make the words and the events not just read but also burned into your mind for the moment - and it's not a simple thing to do that. It was far too easy to die, you know. So it's also far too easy to make a misstep and step over a line that you shouldn't.

Such as, for a second too long, wondering if your sacrifice meant anything.

Your memories loop themselves until you can, just barely, think of pulling yourself out - from the grey beginning to a halted chapter, where the pain of the press is only for a moment but your anguish screamed out long after your throat has gone hoarse and raw.

 

 

 

_Once upon a time—_

"It makes sense," you hear a voice - a wave of voices, murmuring in the far off distance - "That he would end up like this."

"To manipulate the very fabric of reality with a facet of reality - it sounds much like a witch."

"In grandiose words, yes."

"But his magic is...?"

The voices drift away, and in that quiet moment, you finally remember your form - of a boy who desired something, who aimed for something, who played in something.

You blink and stare into a sparkling abyss of an infinite number of worlds, of an infinite number of possibilities, and feel something inside you being tugged towards exploring them. Finding something. Doing something. Just what might you be wishing for?

At this moment, it's too hazy to remember. But in its place, you already understand this - your words are power.

"My, a new one? What are you, little one?"

You turn to an unfamiliar voice. The answer comes easily.

They laugh. "Well then! Allow me to see if you can hold true to your title as the Witch of Lies - a little game shouldn't be anything at all."

And it isn't, really.

 

 

 

You don't remember every single fragment you go through.

At first, your memories were crystal-sharp and refused to disappear. But gradually, almost pathetically, they all begin to fade away - and if you treasured any moments in particular, then those too will disappear without any consideration. You've been told that it's a symptom of some of the more older witches—the truly older ones, who don't conceive their ages from their origins but from having actually existed for a time. And these sorts of witches, while their ages can vary, are nonetheless more than just a couple of decades old. A century is the bare minimum for these witches, which is a bit impressive in general before one compares with the extremely older ones.

Have you really been here for such a long time, however? You wonder. But you don't wonder, because there are things to do, things to see, things to weave - things to both forget and remember with a whisper of your violet words.

(In-between these singular truths and gentle lies, you ask yourself just once - if you've been trying to avoid learning the aftermath of your death.)

 

 

 

Under the blossoms of the cherry tree, you have your first kiss.

You... truly weren't expecting it. Even after so many fragments, so many games, so many mysteries and so many dimmed and lost moments - you seem to have forgotten that not every fragment is meant to make you fall into despair.

Saihara pulls back with a bright red blush on his face, his eyes looking down in anticipation. You're not sure what to say - the usual play, the usual habits, they're not surfacing. For what seems like an eternity, you stare at the boy as he mumbles something about how he never really expected to have feelings for you but in the end, somehow, he did, and he doesn't really care if you don't return it but, but, you know, it would be so nice if you could at least say you don't hate him, for having these sudden hopes and emotions and wishes. Wouldn't that be nice, if we could still be friends after this at the very least? If you could have at least been friends, the very first time around—

You smile back, widely. What was once impossible is now beyond effortless again. "Me too, Saihara."

As you pack up the fragment, erasing your unconscious manipulations, you pretend that you aren't crying.

 

 

 

 

You hesitate.

Of course you would. But it has to be done at some point. You never expected to live past your death, as much as you wanted to.

So, you have to find the end of this infinity and go past it to a point of absolute finality - to move from this one lie to the one truth that even you can't quite get yourself to admit. Hopefully, you will also find that one person who can actually lay you to rest, without regrets.

In a flourish of royal purple, you continue to search for the true ending.

**Author's Note:**

> umineko is pain and so is my son ouma
> 
> also currently uneditted so welp excuse the wonkiness of the lettering bc i didnt really try i guess
> 
> edit: i decided to mention, just in case, that the fic was inspired from certain ndrv3 meta on tumblr. aka please check out oumakokichi's writings on ndrv3 stuff it's soOOO GOOOODDD my h e a r t


End file.
